


The Continuing Story of a Legitimate Businessman

by Halberdier



Series: A Legitimate Businessman [4]
Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homestuck Stabdads, Gen, Humanstuck, Profanity, a legitimate businessman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halberdier/pseuds/Halberdier
Summary: A LEGITIMATE BUSINESSMAN -- ACT IV--What is there after the End of a Legitimate Businessman, when the Opening Act is over and the Best Laid Plans have gone awry? It turns out, there may yet be questions to answer and secrets to uncover. Join the intrepid problem sleuth Patrick Sloan and irascible mobster Jack Vantas as they put a period on the events that have transpired. But one curved line above a period can change that into a question mark.
Series: A Legitimate Businessman [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/21629
Comments: 13
Kudos: 15





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. The final bits of A Legitimate Businessman. I've been working on this for eight years. If you haven't read the rest of the story, go back and start with The Opening Act of a Legitimate Businessman and follow the prompts to get through Acts I, II and III before you read this. For everyone else who has made it this far, and especially those of you who have stuck with me through years of sparse updates and uncertain future, thank you so much. --Yours, Hal.

ONE MONTH LATER

It was a beautiful May morning -- the kind of morning that makes you forget that you had ever once been cold. The breeze was gentle, the sun was shining, and even in a city wedged between the only wetlands around for miles on one side and an endless expanse of desert on the other, there was still an air of idyllic calm in the park that had been carved out between suburbia and the city streets. The large, gentle pond was filled with ducks, and their quacking combined with the tweeting of songbirds and the buzz of insects to create the feeling that nothing bad had ever happened in this town.

It was far enough from the outer edge of town that no repairs needed to be undertaken, too -- only a month previously, an alleged gas leak igniting had turned a local landmark called Felt Manor, a large mansion belonging to a reclusive entertainment magnate and his extended family, into a smoldering crater of rubble. The aftershocks of the explosion had done significant damage to some of the streets -- the gas main must have followed Highway 895 for some distance, based on the extent of the damage. Even a few homes were said to have lost power that night, and the hospital saw a tremendous spike in emergency cases, but in the end, there were not quite so many casualties outside of the people found in the mansion.

The bodies of thirteen people were recovered from the wreckage: twelve of them who were established residents of the address and one who was not. The body of this visitor was identified as Paolo Diamante, a well known name in the Nevada entertainment scene, much like the owner of the estate. He was survived by his teenage daughter, and by this time, questions of his estate had not yet been solved.

Curiously, four known residents of the property were not counted among the dead, nor had they been seen since. Any attempt at contacting the four of them had as yet proven unsuccessful. Even more strange was that one of these people was the owner of the Manor himself, Lawrence English. Of course, he had been the subject of conspiracy theories for quite some time, so it was not a tremendous surprise that the destruction of his property provided even more fodder for the tabloids and theorists. Some of them believed that the official timeline of events did not match up; that the blackout and the explosion of the manor and the destruction of the roads happened in a very different order and at different times than was claimed. Others suggested that the wreckage of the Manor itself did not fit the usual patterns of a gas ignition, but instead resembled a more controlled implosion or the use of high explosives. They also claimed that the crater left behind was far deeper than made any sense. These claims, of course, could hardly be proven, as the area was quickly secured by the police and the wreckage cleaned and reinforced by S. Burb Network Residential and Commercial Development, a subsidiary of Vantas and Sons Real Estate.

Speaking of which, the owner of said company could be seen -- if someone had been walking by, cared to notice, peered under the brim of his hat, and had a good visual memory of the owners of real estate companies -- leaning on the bridge overlooking this very pond and feeding the ducks in a rather uncharacteristically pastoral scene. He had been there for a little bit -- not too terribly long, but not so short a time as it would seem coincidental -- before another man came up next to him on crutches. This man did his best to position himself comfortably on the bridge railing and then produced from his coat a small baguette, from which he started pinching off breadcrumbs and tossing them into the pond.

"That's bad for the ducks," Jack told him.

"What? How?" Patrick Sloan asked.

"Bread," Jack replied. "It's bad for the ducks."

"Literally every single time," Sloan started, "there is a secret meeting in the park, people feed the ducks. This is what you're supposed to do."

"I know," said Jack, "but bread ain't so good for them. That's why I brought corn."

Sloan glanced over without turning his head. Sure enough, Jack had been feeding the ducks out of a large plastic bag filled with sweet corn kernels.

"Where'd you hear that?" he asked.

"My kid told me."

"He likes ducks?"

Jack shrugged. "He reads a lot."

"Fair enough," Sloan said, and he took out a pack of smokes. "Cigarette?"

"I told you," Jack said, "I'm trying to quit."

"Oh yeah, that's right. Do you mind if I…"

"Go ahead," Jack said.

He didn't, though. He just put the pack back in his coat pocket instead.

"So," Jack said, tossing more corn to the ravenous feathered beasts below, "you figure it out yet?"

"I think so," said Sloan. "I looked through my old notes from about 12 and a half years ago. Sure enough, it looks like someone had come to me to get me to investigate a murder around that time. I don't remember what they looked like, so it must have been an intermediary, but some of the details just… line up a little too well with this whole case. Young woman, mid twenties, first generation immigrant. Supposedly the cops weren't taking it too seriously and the woman had a, quote, 'protective family', so I'd probably have to investigate in secret. All of that rang my mob bells, and at the time I wasn't about to get myself tangled in that kinda web. So I turned the case down. Nothing ever came from it, and I never heard any news regarding anything like it, so in the end I just… let myself forget about it."

"I see," Jack said.

"So that was it, right?" Sloan asked. "That was what started this whole mess, yeah? And by turning it down, that's what made me a target too."

"Sounds about right," Jack said. "See, Lawrie had this habit of taking in immigrants and street people, giving them a home when they're vulnerable, and turning that vulnerability into terrified loyalty. And one of those immigrants was a girl by the name of Damara Megido. Lawrie made her something of a servant, and if she'd lived a little longer, she'd probably have been trained as an enforcer too. Obviously, though, she didn't."

"What happened?" Sloan asked.

"She and Droog had some sort of secret affair. Not secret enough, though, because she definitely got pregnant. English let her carry the baby to term on the condition that it go to its father and she never saw it again. Obviously, that didn't sit too well with Droog, so one night, a few months after he had started raising Aradia himself -- well, with his butler's help -- anyway, a few months later, he hatched a plan to 'kidnap' Damara and get her out of town."

"That's when she was killed?"

"Yeah. Seems English didn't like deserters, but he very especially did not like when the deserter was a woman. When a man made to leave, Lawrie made sure he couldn't operate in this town ever again. When a woman made to leave, Lawrie had her killed."

"And Droog assumed it was--"

"Yeah. Which I get. She was their best in-house hitman. But she didn't do it. I always knew she didn't do it. Didn't know who did do it, but… there's things you just know."

"But he thought otherwise."

"Sure did. And he was ready to kill her and the whole damn Felt if I hadn't stepped in."

"I bet he didn't take kindly to that."

"No, but he was an idiot," Jack said. "If I hadn't negotiated a permanent ceasefire, they'd've killed him easily, and they probably would have gone out of their way to kill the baby too."

"Seriously?"

Jack shrugged. "English was a sick fuck. And he didn't like when lessons weren't learned. All things considered, everyone got off easy. Things were always tense after that, but at least there weren't any shoot-outs. All we had to do was part with 30%, but in the end, it let us expand without nearly as much resistance, so we still came out on top when it came to the money."

"Hell of a business," Sloan said, and, ignoring Jack's advice, he threw some more breadcrumbs to the ducks.

"Speaking of business," Jack said, reaching into his coat, "This is for you." He produced a large brown envelope and handed it to Sloan.

"What's this?" Sloan asked.

"Looks like Droog's extracurricular attempts to fuck you over still made him a fair amount of cash. We found this in a few different places while searching his estate to make sure he didn't have some sort of vicious Plan B that would activate on his death like everyone else did."

Sloan opened the envelope and looked inside."Hoo boy," he said. "That's a lotta simoleons." He made a low whistle. "All this while pretending to be DMK. Is this from the drugs or the kidnappings or…"

Jack waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not the detective."

"Well if it's from the people he killed or made disappear--"

"There's no way of knowing. He didn't keep ledgers of any of this, which was pretty unlike him. I guess that's how you know he didn't give a damn about the results, as long as you played into his hands."

"And I sure did," Sloan said with a shake of his head.

"Well, he's dead now," Jack grunted. "And none of that cash is declared, so it won't be in his will or anything."

"Which means Aradia won't get it."

"Don't sound too broken up about that," Jack said. "She'll get plenty of other money, varying degrees of clean. Shares of the company and casinos too. Plus the house and the staff, which still includes those beefy bodyguards and one hell of a butler."

"Her father brainwashed her into attempting murder. She's going to need therapy."

Jack laughed bitterly. "We all need therapy. Figure if she decides she wants it, she'll have Arthour handle that part until she can legally make her own decisions at 18."

"I think in this state, since she's an orphan, she can emancipate herself earlier than that, can't she?"

"Well, that'll be her decision to make," Jack said. "You just worry about that money."

Sloan fingered through it again. "I still don't get why you're giving it to me."

Jack took off his hat and fanned himself with it. "As far as we can tell, he didn't have any plans for it." He put his hat back on. "So me and the boys figured, y'know, since he only had it because he was trying to ruin your lives, it'd be only fair if you and your buddies could split it."

Sloan tucked the envelope next to his cigarettes and sighed. "I don't think they're my buddies anymore. I mean, Peter doesn't outright hate me, but he still lets me know that he isn't sure how far he can trust me anymore. And Ace…" He breathed unsteadily. "I mean, they still haven't found his kid."

Jack grimaced. "No leads there?"

Sloan made an uncertain gesture. "Well, they know he ran away on his own. He left a note about it. Apologized for not being strong enough to protect his mom. Wants to get stronger, make sure this never happens again. Told them not to call the cops because the cops don't help people. Something along those lines."

"Ain't he kinda too little to be talking like that?"

"That's just the problem. Being so little makes him more slippery, and if he doesn't trust the cops, they're not gonna be much use in getting him home."

"I hate to be the one to ask this," Jack asked, "but it's been over a month…"

"No, he's alive," Sloan said. "That's one of the few things we do know. And he's not too far out of town either. He's been slipping notes on their doorstep every week or so, reminding them that he's okay, telling them not to look for him, apologizing, but promising to return once he's done what needs to be done."

"The hell does that mean?"

"I'll be damned if I know," Sloan said with a grimace.

"Big guy's looking for him, though, right?"

"Eh, he wants to," Sloan said. "Right now, he doesn't have much of a chance. He can't bring himself to leave his wife alone for too long these days, at least not until the doctors say she's healed enough for a wheelchair. And I only know all this from Henny, who heard it from Nadine, who heard it from Peter. I'll be shocked if Ace ever speaks to me again."

Jack tossed out more corn and watched the ducks squabble over it. "Showing up with a big wad of cash can go a hell of a long way in repairing a friendship."

Sloan looked at him with a sideways smile. "Awfully wise take on friends."

"Well, I used to have 'em."

"Like Droog?"

"Like I said. Used to. We went way back. Back before the crew. Back before real estate. Back even before I got in good with that governor I'd worked for. He and I worked together, lived together, and rolled together as small time thieves, cheats and conmen, back when I was Blackjack Vance and he was Paulie Diamonds."

Sloan gave him an appraising glance. "What about Snow?"

Jack upended the rest of the corn into the pond and tucked the empty bag into his pocket. "You don't get to know about her."

"Come on, Jack," Sloan pleaded. "One day you'll have to tell me who she was. What she meant to you."

"I don't have to tell you shit," Jack said, and he started to walk away.

"I know you kept her ashes," Sloan called after him, fumbling for his crutches to make pursuit.

Jack stopped, turned around and walked back to him. "Listen close, Mister Problem Sleuth," he said quietly. "This is one mystery you do not get to know the answer to. I don't talk about her. I won't talk about her. Maybe if I was wicked fucking drunk, maybe I'd let something slip, but even then I wouldn't bet on black about it."

Sloan looked him in the eyes. "Then maybe I'll buy you a drink sometime."

Jack laughed. "You incorrigible shitstain. You won't get the chance."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm leaving town."

Sloan raised his eyebrows. "When?"

"Soon as I tie up some loose ends. With the Felt gone and Droog dead, there's gonna be a power vacuum in this place, and you can be sure as hell the cops are gonna be breathin' down my neck pretty hard if I stick around. I figure I'll let Deuce and Boxcars figure out what they wanna do, but I'm gonna cut and run."

"So you're not gonna try to take down the commissioner?" Sloan asked. "This whole thing is her fault."

"No," Jack corrected him angrily, "this whole thing is Droog's fault. Crocker's guilty of a hell of a lot, sure, but she didn't tie us up and plot out how to kill our families."

"Still," Sloan said, "she's the real queen of crime. The most powerful mobster this city's ever seen is in charge of the entire police force. Shouldn't someone do something about that?"

"Maybe someone should," Jack agreed, "but that someone would have to be a detective or something. But if I were you, I'd drop it. Hell, I am going to drop it. I'm gonna sell what I can, head to the midwest, change my name, buy myself a grocery store, and send my kid to college."

Sloan laughed in spite of himself. "I don't believe it," he said. "You're actually going straight."

"Nah," Jack said. "Just going legitimate."

"Well, best of luck to you," Sloan said, "but I don't think I can get out of my business. It's the only thing I've ever been good at. Or at least it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do, and it sure as hell is the only thing I still know how to do."

"Then do it," Jack said. "Just don't forget I warned you to keep your head down."

"Thanks," Sloan replied with a smile. He thought for a moment. "Still, I really would like to buy you a drink."

"Sleuth," Jack said, clapping Sloan on the shoulder, "if I never see you again, it'll be too soon."

Sloan was unfazed. "Even so," he said, reaching into his pocket, "here's my card."

Jack groaned. "This better not be another wallet-sized photograph of you posing shirtless."

Sloan laughed heartily. "No, no, I promise, this one's the real thing. Just had 'em printed last week. Had some of the raid payment left over, and I figured I'd need an update now that things have changed and customers exist again."

He took out the card and held it in his outstretched hand.

Jack stared at Sloan's hand for a moment, and then without anything more than a snort, he snatched the card away, turned on his heel and strode home. As he left the park, he looked the business card over. Patrick Sloan, Private Investigator, it proclaimed modestly in flat black type.

He turned it over a few times in his fingers.

Jack didn't need this.

He didn't need this at all.

But he put it in his pocket anyway. He figured, if nothing else, he and his kid could use a new bookmark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> A Legitimate Businessman
> 
> May 14, 2012 -- April 13, 2020
> 
> An Archive of our Own fanfiction
> 
> written by David M. Briggs  
> aka Halberdier
> 
> based on characters created by Andrew Hussie
> 
> Published in the Hugo-Award-Winning Anthology
> 
> Archive of Our Own
> 
> protected by the Organization for Transformative Works
> 
> created for no other reason
> 
> than for the love of the thing
> 
> and an idea that would not die.


	2. Mid-Credits Stinger

FIVE YEARS LATER

"Easy, ladies, easy there," Patrick Sloan said, switching his cane to his other hand while he fumbled in his pocket for his keys to his new apartment.

Henrietta Sloan, née Donnelly, and her girlfriend giggled drunkenly at Patrick's inebriated attempts to get the door unlocked.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he said with a grin, finally getting the door to open. "There we be," he said, swinging it wide and gesturing.

The two girls tumbled into the door, laughing as they got tangled up in each other on the floor.

"All right, all right," Sloan said, "nothin' to see here, move it along." He laughed gently. "You two get off to bed and do whatever you like. I'm gonna have me some seltzer and stay up a bit."

Henrietta and her girlfriend couldn't stop giggling as they made their way through the darkness to the bedroom door. The shut the door behind them, and before too long, the sounds of a swing record squeezed through its cracks.

Sloan walked confidently through the kitchen to the refrigerator, which he opened and began to dig through. "What about you," he asked the darkness behind him. "You want some seltzer?"

"I heard you got married," the darkness replied, "but now I'm not sure what all that was about."

Sloan straightened up and retrieved a short glass from his cupboard. "Henny and I are happy," he said, "but we both sometimes got needs the other can't provide for. Nothing wrong with that as long as we're on the same page."

"Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night."

"So did you just come here to criticize my marriage?" Sloan asked, moving into the adjoining living room. "Awful wild thing to do, considering the last I heard from you, you didn't ever want to see me again. Ain't that right, Jack?"

He turned on a lamp. There, illuminated in its glow, wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, tattered jeans and an old fishing sweatshirt, was Jack Noir.

"My God," Sloan said. "The years have not been kind to you."

"I just don't like the idea of anyone in this town recognizing me," Jack replied.

"Well a ball cap and a pair of Aviators do not a disguise make, Jack," Sloan said.

"Name's not Jack anymore," Jack muttered.

"Well, it never technically was, now was it?" Sloan asked. "Tell me. Why are you really here?"

"Three nights ago," Jack said, "on his way back from band practice, my kid went missing." He leaned forward and took off his sunglasses to look Sloan dead in the eyes. "I need your help to get him back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring
> 
> Problem Sleuth as Patrick Sloan  
> Ace Dick as "Ace" Richard "Dick" Dunn  
> Pickle Inspector as Peter Inesco  
> Spades Slick as Jose Vantas/Jack Vantas/Jack Noir/Blackjack Vance/Spades Slick  
> Diamonds Droog as Paolo Diamante/Paulie Diamonds/Diamonds Droog  
> Clubs Deuce as Clinton "Clint" Duccio/Clubs Deuce  
> Hearts Boxcars as Heinrich "Hank" Bachman/Hearts Boxcars  
> Hysterical Dame as Henrietta Donnelly  
> Nervous Broad as Nadine Beaumont  
> Doc Scratch as Dr. Vincent Schath/Vinny Shakes/Doc Scratch  
> The Felt as The Felt  
> Lord English as The Thing That Once Was Lawrence English  
> and  
> Black Queen as Lucretia Snow/Lucia Nieves/Snowman  
> and more...


	3. End Credits Stinger

THREE NIGHTS AGO

"I know that's what it sounds like," Karkat Gutierrez -- formerly Karkat Vantas, formerly Carter Vantas -- said into his phone.

He walked down the sidewalk between the music building and his dormitory. "Yes, I already said I know that's what it sounds like," he said, "but you can't trust her."

He absentmindedly fiddled with the drumsticks in his pocket.

"Because you've never been able to trust her!" he shouted into the phone. "Kanaya, listen to me, she keeps pulling this shit, and you need to let her go."

The streetlight above him shattered, but he was too busy shouting to notice. He kept walking, and kept shouting his advice to his best friend.

"She's toxic," Karkat continued at a volume far higher than a telephone conversation required, "and you keep getting caught in her web."

The next streetlight he walked under likewise shattered. This one he noticed.

He looked up to see what happened, and while distracted, his phone was knocked from his hand. He turned around to see who did that, but no one was there.

From behind him, he heard the sound of his phone being smashed, but again, as he turned to look, there was no one there.

Then he felt something press against the back of his head.

"Don't move," a soft voice whispered behind him.

Karkat froze in place.

"Don't speak," the voice continued. "Just listen. Nod slowly if you understand."

Karkat did as he was told.

"Five years ago, two men attacked you. One of them was killed. The other ran away."

He nodded.

"You weren't the only target, and those weren't the only attackers. Does that make sense?"

He nodded.

"I've been keeping tabs on you," the small, soft voice went on. "My benefactor and I agree that the time to punish those responsible has come. Turn around."

Karkat turned around slowly, and as he did, he found himself staring down the business end of a bloodstained Louisville Slugger.

Holding the bat was a thirteen year old boy in a ski mask. "Karkat Vantas," he said. "You are going to help us exact justice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bathearst Will Return
> 
> in
> 
> An Illegitimate Legacy


End file.
